Let me kiss him for his mother,
Let me kiss his dear, youthful brow;
I will love him for his mother,
And seek her blessings now.
Kind friends have soothed his pillow,
Have watched his every care,
Beneath the weeping willow,
O lay him gently there.
Sleep, dearest, sleep;
I loved you as a brother,
Kind friends around you weep;
I've kissed you for your mother.
Let me kiss him for his mother;
What though left a lone stranger here;
She has loved him as non other;
I feel her blessing near.
-Unknown
Visage Through Thine Tears
Eyes opening with the rising sun, a smile graced her pink lips as her hand maternally lay upon her stomach. The smile eradicated immediately. The bump had vanished nearly as fast as it had puffed out. Of course, it had vanished just after she had given the tailor her gowns to have let out – just to make the public humiliation all the more unbearable. The maid had begged the lady of her house to allow her to retrieve her gowns, but the young girl had decidedly taken the journey alone. And everyone knew what it meant when the gowns were retrieved before any alterations had been received. The gossip spread like wildfire, but the young lady would merely raise her chin when she heard the low whispers. But no matter the public occurrences, the coos of regret with the proffered sympathetic touches, nothing could compare to her private mortification.
Yet again, she had failed her duties as a wife. It would have been explicable if it had been the first miscarriage. No one blamed a young girl for a mistake – perhaps she had been eager about a late course, or perhaps the conception had not taken completely. At the second time, an eyebrow was raised in curiosity, a lip folded in withheld wonderment. The third, it was the fault of the mother. A fourth? By God, just more than a century ago this curse whispered sortilege.
Four times. Four babies had been lost in the course of a mere two years. Four times that she had rejoiced with her husband, pondered upon names, knitted yellow stockings for the ambivalent gender of the babe, and then, after all of the thoughts and anticipation, the blood baths came and washed away all hope. One time, the blood had come so late that it had carried out a cluster of a body with the fair beginnings of a head, two hands, and –
She shook her head, burying herself under the covers. She couldn't see the day. Not yet.
In the backyard, three trees were fresh, not yet old, with a headstone in front. There was no writing on the stones, as those they represented were nameless and did not even have a chance at life. One had the form of what could have been a child buried underneath, the first two were just whispers of hope. The most recent loss had yet to be buried. They had yet to find time or strength.
Some of the neighbors had asked her husband if he truly believed her. They accused her that she had made the first two up; that she should just admit that she had been mistaken. But she knew herself and refused – thankfully her lover believed her and not the nosey gossipers. But she could not help but see the darkness cross his face at each letdown. How he seemed more morose without hearing little footsteps echoing through the mansion. One day he had been convinced that they should sell the house and move to a smaller establishment. What good is it, he had asked, to have this house for such a small family? The question had broken her heart, so he let it go, but the idea had already been planted.
Of course, some days were better than others. And that day, it just so happened, seemed the worst of all. For the day before, her sister had given birth to her own first child. Jo, who had seemed the least mothering of all the sisters. And now, she had the most joyous experience of life. After nine months, a perfect baby was born. No miscarriages, no stillborns, no pain…
Amy pushed back the covers furiously. "If I don't get up now, I'll surely die in this bed," she whispered to herself. She called Esther, her personal maid, and the older woman helped her bathe and dress, which seemed to help the angsty blonde.
As Amy descended the stairs, feeling skinnier than ever, she saw the groundskeeper in the foyer. "Good morning, ma'am," he called to her, crushed his cap in his right hand.
"Good morning, Thomas," she said, offering a painless smile.
"I'm not sure if anyone has told you, but Mr. Laurence left early this morning to visit Mrs. Bhaer and Robbie Bhaer. He left a note right here," and the cheerful worker motioned to the bureau. Amy nodded as she stepped from the last stair and hurried forward for said parcel.
"I hope the day is treating you well," Amy spoke idly. Thomas looked nervous speaking to his employer's very pretty wife.
"It truly is," he said. "Would you like for me to tack up your horse so that you might be able to go for a ride? Or you could take the buggy into town."
Amy shook her head. "Not now, Tom; I'd prefer to stay here for a spell. But thank you so much."
"Of course. Well, I've some things outside that require my attention. But if you need me to do anything, I wouldn't mind putting my work up for a moment. It's no inconvenience to me," he said, his hat now completely bereft of structure. Amy smiled as she picked up the notepad.
"Why thank you, sir!"
He left after bowing, to which Amy smiled. He was the newest addition to their staff and was every bit thankful. He had been jobless and unable to provide for his family before Laurie found him in town looking for able work.
Amy picked up the letter and rested on the ormolu settee. Unfolding the creased parcel, she smiled at the familiar hand.
Sweet Persephone,
At first look upon the pane,
Darkness which was the sky,
Spoke truths to the day that once again,
Spring would sleep despite mine sigh.
Fall has reserved another day,
I pray the day that flowers bloom.
Gone have I to the fields of plums, where play
Without thee shall be fitted for gloom.
If a kiss upon the cheek the awakening of spring shall beget,
Your presence this noon with Hestia shall prove a tête-à-tête.
Love, love, and love,
Ever Abashed,
Your Heart
Amy refolded the letter and placed it in her lap. She knew Laurie was upset and wished to speak with him about the happenings of late but did not wish to spoil the new birth of her sister's son. It was not her time to mourn, she thought, and she had no strength to be merry. She also knew that she would have to go eventually, for the previous afternoon when she remained home with the vapors her mother had sent word that she was expected as soon as possible.
"Esther," Amy called. "May I have some tea upon the veranda?"
Outside, the breeze did good to Amy's feeling of claustrophobia. The tea was delicious, warm and soothing upon her thick throat. The birds that were singing in the trees around the terrace were also lovely. She might have sketched them had she any impulse but her lethargy had seemed to seep to every limb. She could not move but to sip from her cup and even that seemed a labor.
"Mrs. Laurence," a voice came from the door to the home. Amy looked up.
"Yes?" It was Thomas, looking quite delighted.
"A Mrs. March is here to see you." He stepped aside to show the guest.
"Marmee," Amy smiled. She set the cup down and held her arms out, trying to expunge the tightening in her throat. She knew very well why Mrs. March was there to take visit of her youngest daughter.
"Dearest Amy," the mother smiled, hugging her daughter close. She sat in a chair across the way afterwards, her lips tight. Amy recognized the face and looked away, tenderly. She poured her mother a cup of tea and offered it to the older woman. For but a minute they enjoyed the setting, but soon after an anxious atmosphere blanketed the beauty.
Amy folded her hands in her lap, trying to focus on the skinny – unhealthily skinny and cold – hands. She shook her head. "How is Jo?"
Mrs. March offered a small smile. "Jo is of beautiful health as is Rob. But they miss their aunt, as does a certain young man."
Amy bit her lip. "I have so many calls today, Mother. Why, Laurie and I received cards and flowers from our neighbors on behalf of our loss and I just…I must thank them for our…for their kindness…and our appreciation." Tears filled her eyes but she blinked them away easily. She had had much practice. "And you understand – and so does Jo. I sent my Laurie for us both. He is so much jollier than I am, as they say, so I don't fret too terribly for abandoning anyone."
Mrs. March placed on of her hands on Amy's knee. "You can be neighborly tomorrow. Your family wants you and your husband needs you."
"He doesn't," Amy assured earnestly. "Jo and the baby will cheer him. He and I shall visit tonight. I don't want to spoil anything with our dilemmas."
"So you know that Laurie blames himself. Good, at least I won't have to belay the awkward subject to such a frail morning," Mrs. March said. Amy's eyes narrowed.
"How do you know, Marmee?"
"He came to see me early this morning. He told me that the day before the baby was born prematurely that he had taken you to a row boat on the lake. While you lounged, it began to rain, and the rain grew heavy and cold. He said by the time that you both reached indoors you were white and trembling. I daresay the boy believes the loss was due to a sickness you caught during your cold spell that he caused," she said.
Amy nodded, her eyes falling. "He told me the same. But I am not sick, Marmee. Nor was I ever! I don't understand why I went into labor so early; everything was perfect." Here, she could not stop the tears from prickling her eyes. She had cried so much that they made her feel sick. "The doctor didn't have an answer. He pulled me aside and asked if there were any other women in my family who were…barren." Here she broke into sobs, falling to her knees and laying her head in her mother's lap.
Mrs. March shook her head. "You are not barren, dearest. And Laurie did not kill your child. Things happen. Until we know all and we shall never, we must bear the labors. Keep your chin high; do not give up. One day you will find your happiness and all of these pains shall only prove that day the sweeter."
Breathing shakily, Amy shook her head. "That day will never come. Look at me, Marmee, I am so thin and gaunt!"
Here the mother laughed. "You have lost some pink to your cheek but you are not gaunt. To me, you look tired. Perhaps you and Laurie should take leave for a while. Go to the beach and relax together. You both have fret too much and need a rest."
Closing her eyes, Amy said, "Do you think so?"
"I know so. And when you stop worrying about a child, that's when it will happen. Do not mourn so much a life lost when you still have hope. Besides, your poor husband is besot with grief. Even Jo and Rob cannot seem to tempt a smile. You are needed."
Amy pulled herself together and rose from her kneeling. "I fear that I will only make him more miserable. I had hoped that Jo's happiness would be contagious, for I am a sorry mess."
"You are in the exact situation as the other, dear. He cannot offer pure elation for his heart is as clouded with grief as yours. You are bound to each other as one, through good and poor times. This is your bad, do not abandon him now."
"But I fear…what I truly fear…is that he shall hear the gossips. They say it is mine own fault that my babies die. Either that or I make up these pregnancies for attention," Amy said.
"Well both of you know the truth and that's all that matters. Amy, you of all people should realize that gossipers are falsifiers. They have too much time on their hands and they like stirring the pot, as Hannah says." Mrs. March patted her daughter's hands.
"What if…Marmee…what if, seeing Jo with Rob, makes Laurie think that he chose the girl to wed? I haven't born him a child yet and we've tried and tried. What if he wishes I were his Jo of back when we were young?" Amy asked, tears choking her tone. Mrs. March knew that this question was coming. It always did with Amy.
"You're afraid Laurie will be jealous of Mr. Bhaer in that he has a son when your dear husband has none?" Amy nodded. Mrs. March smiled. "Honeychild, he does not think such things. One can be happy for another's great fortune without being envious. He is happy for Jo and he does want the same, but not from her. He wants you to be the mother of his children. It's different dearest. He loves her as a sister. He loves you as his wife."
Amy smiled. "Really and truly?"
"Of course silly girl. If you don't believe me, just ask him." Mrs. March gave her daughter a maternal smile. "Come to talk with Laurie. He needs you just as much as you so obviously need him."
For the moment, Amy agreed. "Just let me change into something more fitting. I hardly think this old thing would do."
She excused herself from her mother, called Esther and hurried upstairs. There, she changed into a lavender dress with tiered layers of scallop-edged fabric on the shoulder and skirt. Underneath she wore a white blouse. Her accessories included a black lace shawl draped over her elbows, white gloves, and a white lace handkerchief – just in case. Esther kissed her cheeks and told her she was beautiful as Amy finished pulling her hair back becomingly.
Finally, she was ready. With the lace handkerchief at the ready, she descended from her bedroom. She paused at the coat rack to grab the bonnet hanging from one of the hooks. She noticed that Laurie had forgotten his summer coat. "That poor boy would loose his head…" she muttered to herself. The bonnet was in a mess; the ribbons were knotted and fraying. She frowned at it for a second before shaking her head to wake herself up. The day was at noon and she thought it would be nice to take dinner with her husband.
"Marmee! Are you ready to go?" she called as she began to fix the ribbons on her bonnet. At the silence, Amy decided that perhaps her mother had gone outside for a spell. She walked to the double doors leading outside and opened one with the side of her hip. "Marmee? Are you out –" She dropped the bonnet. "Laurie? What in the world are you…"
"Doing here?" Laurie finished with a smile. He picked up the bonnet and took the hands of his dainty wife. Walking, he led her along the trail to the outer parts of their backyard. "I'd have to wonder why you ask, milady. I'm here for you of course."
After having caught her breath, Amy said, "For me? Why, I was about to come to you!"
"Me? You silly girl; I would have doubt you'd be up to such a ride."
"Marmee had come and was to take me. I daresay I don't know where she's off too."
"Ah," Laurie smiled. They paused as he finished untying her bonnet and he quickly tied it around her pretty head. "There, picturesque." He kissed her mouth tenderly. "It seems dear Marmee has snuck off when you weren't looking."
Amy sensed it was more than that. "So it seems."
He smiled. "Jo was quite well but…I couldn't enjoy myself without you."
"And I, you," Amy replied gently. She leaned her head against him. "Look at the butterflies, milord, amongst the lilies. Are they not the most beautiful?" Warm colored wings of pinks, reds, yellows, and oranges dusted the buds of the flowers, willing them to open and share the beauty of the day. The butterflies were large; about the size of Amy's handspread, and effortlessly brought a grace to the scenery.
Laurie nodded. "Quite." He tucked his chin against his wife's blonde head.
"Laurie?"
"Hmm."
They began to walk, her weight leaning upon his arm. He took her safely across the pathway of nature, one eye never leaving her face. "I have been poorly, and I do not doubt that yet again the death was of my fault," she whispered, barely moving her lips.
Laurie kept silent, his gaze contemplative.
Amy sighed, "I want to apologize. We shall try something…anything to help next time. We will take the doctor's advices and do the treatment…next time, Laurie, I won't…I promise."
Laurie shook his head. "It's of no fault to you. And I shan't allow your health taken as an experiment. You have been poorly with worry, I know, for while your tongue shall lie your face does not. And I – well, let us just say that I did not help the matter with my naivety." His face was dark.
All her thoughts were of the image of her forming child, after she had birthed it untimely. "Laurie?"
"Yes darling."
And she knew that she had to bring up the subject for him who had suddenly turned shy. "Marmee said you talked to her this morning, dearest. And I want to say that none of this has been your fault."
Laurie sighed, stopped walking, and dropped his hands in his pockets. "But it has been my fault. I was the one that took you on that star-crossed rowing trip. If it hadn't have rained and you hadn't have gotten so chilled, perhaps that baby would have been saved. When you…that afternoon…I just…Amy I'm so sorry!"
And now it was Amy's turn. She wrapped her arms around Laurie as he buried his face into her breast.
The couple said nothing as they stood amidst the elms of the backyard. The low branches drooped with the couple's spirit and the thick leaves hid them from society. For a moment, they only had each other. They only needed each other. And most of all, they only wanted each other. The couple reunited in a bond of understanding. The grief that they both shared was obvious but the love overshadowed any adversity that they faced.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Laurie," Amy finally said. Laurie looked up from her breast, his face flooded with tears. Amy kissed them away. "Nothing at all."
"Nor do you," he replied taking her hands. The tears returning to her eyes did not fall.
"Thank you," she whispered as he kissed her hands.
They continued walking again, arm in arm underneath the elms. Silence overcome the pair as they enjoyed each others' company amidst nature. It was not relief that either one was feeling, but a conjoined sense of appreciation for the other. Their love seeped through every pore of their bodies voluntarily, allowing each person to feel a considerable amount of belonging.
They ended up at the wooden swing in the largest elm of their property, situated in front of the willows. They sat together, his arm around her, her head resting on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head. The headstones of their unborn children stared blankly back towards them. What could have been the shrieks of young kids was the silence of nature. But, as Amy looked at her handsome husband, hope flooded her core.
"We'll try again," Amy said to her husband. Laurie squeezed her closer to him, loving her every inch.
"Yes we will, love."
- . - . - . - . -
As soon as the doctor confirmed what Amy had already known, Laurie took her to the ocean. He all but bought a house on the beach that she had pined over since they had visited it. Each morning, she would walk to the waves' front in her bathing garb, the breeze tangling her curls with salt water. The rays of the sun improved her health. Her cheeks became rosy once more and her thoughts no longer melancholy. Laurie enjoyed every moment with his little wife and gladly took the time away from the business and his grandfather.
As they walked hand in hand against the setting sun upon their last day amidst the coast, Amy's heart felt so full of love for her husband. He had cured her of all of her sicknesses. When she was young, he had rescued her from the icy lake. During her moment of humiliation at the fair, Laurie brightened her day with flowers. After the passing of her dear sister, Laurie was at her side. And after each other her failed pregnancies, he was there holding her close, never once doubting his commitment. In any other case, Amy was sure the husband would blame the wife. She wondered to Fred Vaughan. What would he have said if his wife did not seem to be able to bear his child? She knew the old-fashioned cockney boy favored large families and pretty faces. What would have he done during her grimmest moments?
But Laurie, the ever earnest and faithful young chap was there for her always. Even right then, as they wandered in silence, both his hands were full because of her. In his left were her shoes so that she could feel the sand beneath her toes and in his right was her hand, fingers laced through the others' lovingly. As he looked on, eyes tender but bright with happiness, all Amy could see was his love. She had feared that after so many failures she would see disappointment in his eyes. Worst of all fears was the she would see his disappointment that she was not Jo's replica, after meeting Rob and witnessing the strength of the babe. But none of this emotion was traceable in his features. Love, love, and love was all she saw.
After their conversation amongst the trees and butterflies, Amy realized that even if they could not bear their own children, they could be happy. Their nieces and nephews could act as their own, and Laurie had even suggested sponsoring young boys' educations at universities. They could help the growth of children already there. Children that did not feel wanted but had been brought so effortlessly into the world. For although the Laurence manor was not full of bright eyes, the orphanages of the world were.
At present, Laurie wrapped his arms around his wife's waist, leaning his head on her shoulder. She turned her face to lean against his chest, sighing with content. "It shall be good to be home, but I will miss this place," said she, hoping not to ruin the moment.
He breathed out calmly, "This is yours, dearest. Whenever you wish it, just pack up a few of your frocks and your paint utensils. I'll whisk you into a carriage and take you here myself. Why, if every trip you create such masterpieces as you have as of late, your genius should not be deprived." His eyes twinkled.
"I don't know about genius, dear, but surely it is my best work," said she, appreciating his praise but modestly understanding his bias.
"It is," he agreed, "and it shall look fitting against our walls." He cupped her chin. "You should continue your works even at home. You should not waste this talent gifted to you as a child."
Each morning while Laurie lounged upon the sand and watched, she had painted on the beach. The still atmosphere had calmed both of the grievers and the continuity of the waves whispered of a higher grace. They felt like small souls, joined by a large melting pot of hopes and dreams. Some hopes were instantaneously granted while others took time and love to nurture into bloom. Most of the paintings she had created were of Beth. Each time a brush was propped in her hand, the curves of the paint rhythmically brought the image of Beth. It was a serene face; injecting a knowing and inspiring feel to its couple audience.
"Do you remember when we spoke of castles in the sky?" Amy asked Laurie after she had collected her thoughts. He nodded, while pulling her on his lap to lounge on the sand.
"Of course. What a silly one mine was," he laughed at the memory.
"No," Amy smiled, "it wasn't. Mine was just as self-indulgent – as were Jo's and Meg's. Beth was the only one who did not want. She saw her happiness being home and always with Marmee and Father. Well, she is. She is home; the most home of all hearths, the largest castle of them all. She is always in our hearts and I am sure she watches over Marmee and Father and the rest of us March sisters." Amy smiled. Tenderly, she added, "Perhaps our babies had the same dream as Beth."
Laurie watched his pensive wife through his eyelashes. "I would like to think that," he murmured.
"Their dreams were just granted faster than ours and even Bess. They would be happy in such a circumstance, don't you think dear?"
"Very happy," he replied. "And our Beth always loved children."
Amy felt a lump in her throat. "Yes."
"Eventually our dreams, too, will be of going to our eternal home," Laurie said, smoothing Amy's collar as it flipped up in the breeze. He kissed her hands. "We'll get there."
"Truly?"
"We'll see them all again," Laurie promised. "They're all waiting for us."
Though her eyes were welling with tears, Amy's smile was glowing. "Let Beth kiss them for their Mother."
Laurie began to hum the known ballad of a similar name. While his voice harmonized with the wind, his fingers traced up and down her arms.